


Of Bards and Stale Bread

by potofsoup



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28402806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potofsoup/pseuds/potofsoup
Summary: Geralt asks Jaskier a question one night: "Why do you do this?"
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	Of Bards and Stale Bread

**Author's Note:**

> So I've read a lot of fics where Jaskier has a horrible family, and others where Lettenhove is a source of welcome and comfort for him and the Witchers, and then one day I idly wondered, "what if Jaskier's family life was just ... okay?" And also, "How would Geralt feel, finding out that Jaskier's had an 'out' this whole time?"

“Why do you do this?” Geralt asked as Jaskier was sorting his remaining food into rations for the next 3 days. 

Jaskier answered absent-mindedly. “Well, it’s probably 3-4 days’ journey to the next town? I want a nutritional balance, but also this bread looks like it’ll be moldy by tomorrow night, which means that I’ll have to save the nuts for day three, much as I’d like to nibble on some tonight. Experience has taught me that if I don’t do this now, I’ll regret it a few days down the line when I’m starving and have NOTHING in my pack.”

“No, I meant, why do you do *this*.” Jaskier looked up to see Geralt gesture broadly at, well, everything. Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “You are a fair traveling companion? You tolerate my blathering and constant strumming, account for my slower pace, and sharing a room is easier on the money pouch. Not to mention, we’re friends, or at least I hope so, after five years of traipsing up and down the Continent…”

“No, I meant.” Geralt frowned, brows knitted as he tried to get his point across. “Why travel at all.” Jaskier watched his Adam’s apple bobble as he swallowed. “You said you had a professorship at Oxenfurt.” Geralt’s eyes floated to Jaskier’s rations. “You don’t *have* to be here, rationing stale bread.”

“Ah.” Jaskier sat back and picked up his lute. He needed to hold and strum something if he’s having a serious conversation. “I’ve told the other professors at Oxenfurt that it’s for the real world experience and a chance to test my songs in the court of public opinion, but I’m sure that’s not what you’re looking for. You want the *real* reason.”

Geralt hummed an assent and waited, hands busy with putting the final studs on a set of pauldrons that he intended to sell at the next market. Jaskier chewed his lips and pondered for a few idle notes before making the decision.

“It goes back to my family.” Certainly five years was long enough to talk about this. Geralt quirked an eyebrow, and Jaskier shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t like talking about my family but…” Jaskier swallowed, suddenly nervous. “I’m actually a viscount.” 

Geralt snorted incredulously, which was frankly the greatest compliment he could give. Some of Jaskier’s older doublets and chemises still had holes left from where he’d ripped out the embroidery, but they’d gotten sufficiently road-worn that someone would only notice it they went hunting for them. He’d also rid himself of much of the noble accent, and his handwriting was more the scrawl of Oxenfurt Professor than the court style with the extraneous loops and flourishes. 

“Don’t believe me?” Jaskier put his lute down and stood up with a laugh (another thing he’d left behind — the prim, humorless thing they call “laughter” in the court). Dusting his pants, he squared his shoulders, drew from the part of himself that was honed in years of temple school and Redanian high society, schooled his face into one of haughty disdain, and shifted the tenor and elocution of his voice. “Sitting, whilst your lord stands? Prithee, carry thyself with more propriety.”

Geralt’s eyes widened, but he remained sitting.

With a huff of relief, Jaskier slumped back down on the log and picked up the lute again. “Ugh, yeah, definitely not me.” He turned his focus to picking out a complex melody, not wanting to see whether Geralt was looking at him as he would a stranger. “I was born into it, and groomed to take over the family estate. It went about as well as you’d think, which was ‘not very.’” He thought back to the arguments that he had, none involving raised voices or impassioned speeches, because that’s not how it was done. He’d written letters of entreaty to his father and lord. Then his father had written back. Sternly. “Half of it was the tedium of estate management, and the other half was the tedium of court ritual and politics. I could do it, if I set my mind to it, but I was sooooo bored. I could see the rest of my life stretched before me, the tedium of every single day.” Finally, he’d suggested Oxenfurt as a compromise, and his father had assented, on condition that he continue to manage the household, and minimum one court appearance per year.

“I was so excited by a chance to study at Oxenfurt — I could pursue my music, but still be available to manage the estates as needed.” Jaskier remembered his first days at Oxenfurt, staying up all night in impromptu music sessions in the student dormitories. “But turned out it was still the same people, the same posturing. Just because said posturing was through over-analysis of verse structure and rhyming scheme didn’t make it any better.” Jaskier did not like seeing himself reflected in all the other students: all noble children pursuing the facsimile of rebellion while living comfortably on their family’s wealth. It didn’t make him stop his studies, but he knew he wanted to do something else, something that made him feel comfortable in his own skin. 

“Oxenfurt wasn’t enough,” he explained. “So when my parents got old enough to stop asking after my studies, I took to the road. I picked a damned good steward to run the estates, and he’s the only one who knows that I don’t spend the year at Oxenfurt. He keeps me abreast of what’s going on in my estate, and I still turn up to the Redanian court once a year to pay my respects.” Jaskier shrugged. “It’s the price I pay to be able to spend the rest of the year eating moldy bread, sleeping on lumpy bedrolls and writing easy rhymes that are ridiculous enough to remember.” 

Geralt had been quiet, but here he couldn’t help saying in a slightly pained voice, “So you rhymed meat with bleat on purpose.”

Jaskier grinned. “It’s awful and therefore memorable!” He strummed his lute and was about to pick out the opening lines to Toss a Coin when Geralt gave him a quelling look, and instead picked a light Redanian folk dance.

Geralt scowled as he heard the music. “Wait, you’ve played at the Redanian court. I was there.”

“And no one gave me a second glance!” Jaskier stood up and turned in a circle. “What you see here is Jaskier the traveling troubadour.” Jaskier grinned. “I wear boots and trousers, Julian Alfred Pancratz of Lettenhove wears hose and soft dance shoes.” Jaskier waggled his eyebrows, to properly set up the dramatic reveal. “I also wear a wig. Full head of curls in the latest court fashion, of course.”

Geralt snorted at the thought of Jaskier with the outfit he’d just described, and with a final strum and a half-bow, Jaskier set his lute down and returned to his food sorting.

Geralt quietly observed him for a few minutes, then huffed. “So why eat moldy bread at all? A viscount is not short on coin.”

Jaskier blinked. He supposed that he could have, especially in those early days when his feet were sore and he didn’t make enough in an evening to afford a room. “I suppose, if I wanted, I could withdraw money at Oxenfurt or one of the temples.” Jaskier began slowly, thinking his way through his subconscious decisions. “But honestly, I usually forget. Those parts of my life are …” he vaguely waved his hand, “sectioned off. Put away in the trunk to be taken out once a year. Plus it’s such a hassle — if I were to go, I’d have to prove that I’m a viscount. Much easier to just ration my food properly.” 

Geralt snorted, and Jaskier waved the loaf in his hand. “Besides, the bread may be stale, but I got it with my own coin that I earned through playing music. It wasn’t my choice to be a viscount, and the professorship happened because I stuck around Oxenfurt long enough for them to assign me classes, whereas I chose to be a bard, because I *love* this life. This is when I am the most *me.*”

Geralt fell silent at that, and Jaskier took that opportunity to tuck his food back into his pack and set out his bedroll. It’s when they’re both settled in and the fire dimming that Geralt spoke again. “I did not choose to be a Witcher, I was made into one.”

Jaskier closed his eyes against the wave of mourning that overtook him. Geralt’s questioning tonight suddenly made sense. As did his attitude towards Destiny. 

“If you could, would you have run away and become someone else, as I did?” He asked, even though he knew it was an impossible question for someone who didn’t have Oxenfurt as an alternative, or a father who could be petitioned through letters. 

Geralt was silent again, but after five years with the Witcher, Jaskier knew how to wait. He hummed a little ditty under his breath and thought about what Geralt could be if he weren’t a Witcher. A stable master? An herbalist? A brewer? Finally, Geralt sighed. “I grew up in a Witcher stronghold, it’ the only thing I know to be.” Which was both an answer and a non-answer. 

Jaskier cast about for something easier. “Well, do you like being a Witcher?”

A shrug and a grunt, about as Jaskier expected. 

“I hate the part where I have to go to court and pretend to be someone else,” Jaskier admitted, “but even at Oxenfurt, I feel like I’m living someone else’s life. I have a completely different attitude toward stale bread, for one. I have to constantly will myself to let go of the habits from the road, lest I get weird looks for pocketing bread or haggling prices. It’s not all bad — definitely fun to argue about syllabic stresses, but it’s like there’s two of me, the one that’s on the road, and the one who winters at Oxenfurt.” 

Geralt grunted in agreement, and Jaskier was filled with an overwhelming curiosity — what was Geralt like when he wintered with his fellow Witchers? Would he laugh? Or at least smile? When Jaskier returned to Oxenfurt or to his estates, it always felt like he’s donning armor, pasting on a fake smile and sharpening his tongue. Was the winter stronghold a place where Geralt could take off his armor and rest beside a fire? It’s something that Jaskier couldn’t begin to imagine, but desperately wanted to see.

“I don’t particularly want you to see the version of me at Oxenfurt. It’s a good place to winter, but I’m… I’m not real there. Just checking the boxes until I can be on the road again.” Geralt hummed thoughtfully, and Jaskier couldn’t help but wonder where Geralt feels more true to himself — on the road, or at the keep. Jaskier knew his own answer to that question. “The road, and performing, earning coin for dinner and a hot bath — that’s when I feel truly alive.” 

Geralt hummed thoughtfully, which Jaskier counted as a win. He tucked himself more comfortably into his bedroll and set himself towards sleep. Geralt may be staying up with his thoughts, but Jaskier needed the sleep if he was going to be walking 20 miles tomorrow on stale bread and no nuts.

Then, just as he was drifting off, he heard Geralt whisper, “Thanks, Jaskier.”

**Author's Note:**

> Dear autocorrect, stop turning Geralt into Gerald.
> 
> Oh btw I'm on a wip-closing spree. There may be more short things being tossed on here as I slap barely some words onto existing wips and punt them out the door.


End file.
